Lovely
by DandyBoyDaniel
Summary: Draco Malfoy thinks Theodore Nott is lovely. A sweet and spicy slash drabble.


DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not making money from the bastardization of JK Rowling's characters.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Based on the Hogwarts '97-'98 roleplay on Twitter. Written from the point of view of PetitMortMalfoy for TheoNottJr.

"Lovely"

You're sitting next to me in Potions, thoroughly engaged in Slughorn's lecture. As usual, I'm terribly distracted like a baby around shiny objects. A raven pecking at a beetle on the window sill, the fraying cuff of your sleeve, the broken barb on the feathered end of my quill – all these things seem much more fascinating than "the congealing effect of monkshood powder in sensory intensifying potions". I just copied those exact words off your parchment.

The lecture hour of double potions is ending and Slughorn taps the chalkboard to reveal the next assignment for lab. It's Opiatia, a curious potion that increases the sense of taste in humans, often used in food additives. It's terribly tricky to get it just right. The slightest mistake in the measurement of ingredients causes random sensory amplification of any one of the five senses and varies greatly between the user. Yes, I've also just copied all of that from your parchment.

Slughorn claps his fat hands together and invites us to find partners, since the difficulty level of brewing this potion is quite high. I swiftly claim you with my hand around your wrist, as if somebody else would actually have the gall to take you from me. Everybody should have noticed by now that Theodore Nott hasn't partnered with anybody but Draco Malfoy since September.

"You prep the ingredients. I'll do the measuring," you tell me.

"Why can't I do the measuring?" I frown as I grab a gram scale.

You take the scale away from me. "You heard what Slughorn said. If it's not precise, it won't work correctly." You say it as if such a thing shouldn't offend me. You have this uncanny way of talking to me that's not quite condescending, but somehow makes me feel inferior. It's infuriating.

"I am perfectly capable of measuring ingredients, Theodore," I declare in a huff.

You give a resigned sigh. "Fine. I'll prep and measure out half the list of ingredients. You do the other half. Maybe it'll go faster that way.

I pick up another scale with a triumphant grin.

We've been diligently mashing, cutting, crushing, and measuring for a good quarter of the lab hour. I still have several ingredients to prep and measure. I'm getting bored doing it silently and strike up light conversation about how dry the pumpkin pasties have been at tea lately, and how I think the elves are slacking off this year with the headmaster so distracted.

"_You're_ distracted, Draco," you say, never looking up from your work.

I mimic your words in a mocking voice, "_You're distracted, Draco._ Fucks sake, Theo. I can't have a bloody conversation with you anymore? What, am I only good for sex and…well… sex?"

You sigh and give me a pleading look. "Draco…"

In my annoyed state, I've just dumped a teaspoon of shredded hemlock cones into the cauldron without leveling off the measuring spoon first. Of course, I'm not going to bloody tell you that.

We've been bickering like this for a few weeks now. The honeymoon is over, so to speak, and we're just doing what all complacent couples do who know that nothing one says will make the other go away. Part of me thinks you're beginning to take me for granted. That's what I get for using the L-word with you too liberally. Maybe you're getting bored with me. As I think about this, I'm becoming careless with my measurements, though I'm working in perfect silence, save for the occasional dejected sigh.

Our potion looks exactly the way it should be. In the end, Slughorn rewards us all with a cupcake taken with a healthy dose of Opiatia. Everyone is going on and on about how good the cakes taste while under the influence of the potion. I roll my eyes at how easily the power of suggestion works on dimwitted fools. The cupcake tastes bland and stale, like much of the muck that's come out of the kitchens lately. I sneak another dose or two of the Opiatia, but still no effect.

Theodore concurs. "It doesn't taste any different to me. I wonder if perhaps our potion went wrong somewhere." He gives me a pointed expression and I look away with a shrug.

It's the last lesson of the day, thankfully, and we retreat to our dormitory room. I pull you onto my four-poster bed and draw the curtains closed. You curl up next to me, resting your head on my chest with a tired sigh.

"Long day, yeah?" I remark as I twirl a lock of your dark hair around my finger. It feels softer than usual, and I wonder if you've maybe changed your conditioner.

"Mmhm," you reply lazily. "I think a nap before dinner sounds lovely, don't you?" I agree.

I'm spooning you as you sleep in my arms. I find that I cannot rest. I'm distracted again, this time by things I'm noticing about you for the first time in the dim lamp light that filters through the spaces between the curtains. I'm making a mental list of these things as I savor them. I notice the subtleties of the way you smell in different places as I kiss you softly, careful not to wake you.

When I kiss your cheek, I note how smooth it is as my lips ghost upon it, and I smell the astringent menthol of your aftershave. Behind your ear is another menthol scent, this one sweeter, of the cigarette you previously wedged there to smoke after lunch. I bring the fingers of your left hand to my lips – they bear a similar smell of menthol and tobacco smoke, while the fingers of your right hand smell of ink and parchment. They're not unpleasant scents. They're masculine and inherently _you_.

I nuzzle my face behind your head to revisit the softness of your hair. I brush my cheek against it and delight in how sensually appealing it is – softer than even baby's hair, lightly fragrant with the scent of citrus shampoo, and somehow luminous while still dark.

I kiss the small patch of skin on the back of your neck that peeks out between the top of your collar and your hairline. Here, you smell of lavender soap – the sort that's hand-milled in Provence.

I wrap my arms around you tightly and press my cheek against your back. I smile when I realize that the velvety melon scent on your jumper is my cologne.

I'm getting lost in the way you stimulate my senses and soon find myself hard. I'm subtly grinding against you. I can tell from the way you awake with a quiet, contented sigh that you're grinning.

"You're lovely," I whisper into your ear, my voice dripping with adoration.

You turn in my arms and press your smiling lips to mine. "Erm, thank you?" You're surprised by my unsolicited compliment.

"I love you," I sigh between kisses. "Everything about you."

"Why, Draco!" you say with an amused quirk of your brow. "If I didn't know better, I'd say we accidentally brewed Amortentia.

So maybe the Opiatia _has_ had an effect on my senses. It doesn't matter. I love you regardless of what any potion allows me to see. You're lovely.


End file.
